


Attach

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor could get parts.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 68





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**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Political tension in the arctic is at an all time high, but Hank knew that already—it’s all over the TV, and Connor keeps him posted on ‘important’ world events whether he wants to hear them or not. He scrolls through the article fast enough to make his wrist hurt, not even bothering to skim the text. He shouldn’t have brought the tablet to bed at all. Sprawled out under the wrinkled blankets and pillows, Hank officially gives up on trying to be an informed citizen. He holds the button on the side to turn the artificial light off, and just like that, he’s plunged into darkness. His eyes gradually adjust to the dim, muffled glow of the stars past his faded curtains. Done with the world for another day, he tosses the tablet onto his nightstand. He’s only just settled back when the door opens.

He hears Sumo’s familiar heavy panting, but Connor’s steady steps follow closely behind. Sumo whines as Connor politely shoos him back out of the bedroom, murmuring, “Good boy.” Then Connor’s handsome figure is slipping into the room, silhouetted by the light of the hall until he’s shut the door again. 

He turns to look at Hank and offers a soft smile, the sort of thing that Hank would’ve once thought impossible for a machine. Connor’s full of impossibilities. His LED illuminates just enough for Hank to clearly make out Connor’s hands on his tie. 

He neatly unfolds it as he reports, “The dishes are done.”

The tie’s draped over Connor’s arm as he sheds his jacket, turning to place it on a nearby chair—the only space he needs for his entire wardrobe. Hank grunts, “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s not like Connor makes any dishes himself, aside from when he’s running new cooking programs in an attempt to improve Hank’s diet. 

Connor’s collar pops open, and Hank watches, suddenly breathless, as Connor’s nimble fingers unhook one button at a time. There’s a little twitch in Connor’s smile that says he knows exactly how easily captivated Hank is, and it seems like he goes a fraction slower than necessary for it, adding a grace to his usually utilitarian movements. He draws his crisp white shirt open to reveal a smooth expanse of creamy synthetic skin, dotted here and there with little moles that Hank always wants to tongue. He knows the faint outlines of a six-pack and dimpled abs aren’t truly _muscle_ , but it doesn’t make him _want_ Connor any less. As Connor unclasps his belt, Hank wonders when exactly he went from hardcore hating androids to getting hard for them. 

To be fair, it’s only Connor that really does him in. He’s never stooped low enough to rent a Traci. But it’s easy to think that, now that he has Connor, because Connor’s the only thing he needs. 

Connor bends to shed his pants, unfasten his garters, and remove his socks, leaving his trim body in nothing but a pair of tight grey boxer-briefs. They cling to Connor’s hips as though they’re painted on, and Hank almost snorts when he thinks that they very well could’ve been—he’s pretty sure most dolls come with permanent underwear. The sad part is that after his initial laughter, it probably wouldn’t make a difference. He’s fallen so hard that he could lie in bed next to a _truly_ naked Connor—all pearly white plating instead of supple peach—and he wouldn’t pull away. 

As Connor finishes putting away his clothes and makes for the bed, he suggests, “Perhaps we should try purchasing genital attachments.”

Hank’s so busy ogling Connor’s prone body that it takes him a second to question, “ _Genital attachments_?”

Connor hooks one knee onto the mattress and hikes himself up, crawling forward. “Mhm. I’ve flagged several websites that sell old models which I believe I can be retrofit with. Obviously getting parts straight from the manufacturer would be ideal, but given that CyberLife no longer supports my model...”

Connor finally reaches Hank, squirms his way enticingly under the covers, and spreads himself out so close to Hank that the room’s temperature seems to skyrocket. Connor barely even _has_ a temperature. But all the places he touches Hank—a knee against his leg, a hand on his stomach, Connor’s whirring temple against his shoulder—feel inexplicably _warm_. 

As much as Connor melts him, Hank’s still has enough common sense to bark, “No way we’re buying _used_ genitals. Have you lost your marbles?” Connor’s eyes flash rapidly for a split second, maybe trying to interpret the odd expression. It’s wild to Hank that Connor would even suggest such a thing. On the other hand: “Jeez, you want a dick that bad?”

“I have no preference,” Connor replies evenly, which is what Hank expected. When he thinks about it, he’s not even sure Connor necessarily meant a penis. “I just want to be able to satisfy you.” He tilts his head to press a chaste but lingering kiss against Hank’s cheek, ruffling through his stubble. It often blows Hank’s mind that he has a beauty like Connor in his bed, so eager to _please_.

Then again, Connor’s always been fully dedicate to whatever mission he’s currently on. In the absence of CyberLife’s guidance, _Hank_ seems to have become his number one priority, even over cases at work. He’s saved Hank’s life more than once. 

He’s managed to reach parts of Hank that Hank was sure were gone forever. It’s become too easy for Hank to turn and peck Connor’s forehead. He wants to go for Connor’s mouth, wants to explore that velvety cavity as much as possible, but first he has something to say. He reaches under the blankets to find Connor’s stomach, and Connor doesn’t lose breath at the touch, but his LED does flicker. Hank nudges his fingertips beneath the hem of Connor’s underwear and slides down, tracing the bare plating that runs between his legs, completely featureless. When Hank cups Connor there, yellow loops over the blue, and Connor’s lips part: subroutines engaging to be _ready for more_. Hank promises, “It’s fine like this. You’re fine.” He gives Connor a gentle squeeze and leans in for a proper kiss, thinking: _damn fine._

Connor indulges him for a few seconds before breaking the kiss with a knowing smile. Those kisses trail lower, until Connor’s ducking under the blankets, and Hank’s eyes roll up to the ceiling. When it comes to Connor now, he wouldn’t change a damn thing.


End file.
